


Let Me In

by accio_arse



Category: Nathan Barley (TV)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Dark, F/M, Sibling Incest, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accio_arse/pseuds/accio_arse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire always ends up letting Dan in. Incest, underage, but the sexual content is not explicit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me In

It’s who knows what o’clock in the middle of the night when he pushes through my bedroom door, swaying, bottle of vodka in one hand.

“Aha!” he denounces.

He stands there for a bit, making his grand entrance. Meanwhile I prop myself up in bed, trying to focus. 

“Dan? That you?” My head is still deciding if there’s a good enough reason to wake up. 

“Ha!” he repeats, pauses for emphasis, then tilts up his chin, wobbles, and then has to stick a hand out towards the doorframe to regain verticality. 

“You fucking did it!” he says and points for emphasis.

“Dan? Did what?”

“Did Barley.” Dan screws up his face in a parody of disgust. “I hear you fucked him. Yeah, well done. So now the whole office is saying how my sister’s had Barley’s skanky cock up her shitter. Great.” 

He staggers over and hisses right in my face. 

“Yeah. _Thanks for that, sis._ ” 

Tirade over, his legs give way. His heavy drop to the floor is almost an afterthought. A second’s pause, and I hear the deep clunk of a bottle being flung against the carpet. The vodka must be finished.

I look over the edge of my bed at his body. There was never any point trying to argue with him, and even less point when he’s been drinking. I try for what coherence my sleepy brain will allow. “I didn’t shag him, I promise. Dan, alright? You happy now?” 

Dan is sitting, knees drawn up protectively. His head is in his hands, absurdly childlike. He parts one finger to reveal an eye. “You really didn’t?”

“That’s right. I didn't. Now I’m going back to sleep, and you should too.”

“But at the office. They all said…”

“For Christ's sake, Dan! Just get to bed! You wake me up in the middle of the night, feed me a pile of crap that your idiot workmates have… “

His voice is suddenly small and unsteady, cutting through my anger. 

“Claire?” 

I sigh heavily. “Okay, what?”

“Claire. Let me in, Claire.”

Our code words from long ago. My stomach drops.

Back when we were kids, my big brother used to be so impressive. He was articulate and clever, full of a thousand whirling plans. Clearly going places, just like I wanted to someday. On Saturday mornings I used to sneak quietly into his bed, wait patiently until he stirred awake, and then we’d just lie there for hours, giggling, talking, being together. Lying with him was like touching all my future dreams. 

Sometimes I’d dare to put my arms around him. I still remember the thrill of the times he let me hold him. It was warm and slightly prickly under the just-too-warm duvet, pressed to the back of his t-shirt. Over the corner of his incredibly male shoulder was his Babel tower of Seven Up and Coke cans. It took him years to drink enough to make that tower. He was so incredibly proud of it. 

My big brother. Eight years older than me. And gone so soon, leaving me to deal with our parents all alone.

By the time I was fifteen it was Dan who was sneaking into my bedroom on his short visits back from uni. Most of those times we’d end up in bed again and it would be just like before. We'd whisper urgently under the covers, as if every moment had to count. Other times home, he'd bring a condom. Dan was older. He knew about those kinds of things. I trusted him to take care of me. 

“Let me in, Claire,” he would say. 

“Yes,” I’d tell him, and I’d mean it. 

After every time I’d write to him for months afterwards, long, embarrassing letters that he never replied to. Even as my newest letter dropped through the slot of the pillar box my heart would sink. I knew it never meant as much to him as it did to me. 

He’d already escaped. He was free.

By the time I came down to London, years later, everything had changed. It was a relief, in a way. I mean, look at him now. He’s crawling up my bedclothes, heavy and sodden with drink, pushing hopelessly at my thighs, trying to get them apart even through my sheets. 

“Let me in, Claire,” he’s saying. “Go on, let me in.”

And despite everything, you know what? 

I probably will.


End file.
